


A Fool's Journey

by Saan_vi



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Pre-Canon, mild violence, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 19:23:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20512214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saan_vi/pseuds/Saan_vi
Summary: The Jester makes his journey to the Hamlet.





	A Fool's Journey

Sarmenti fled the royal court leaving a bloody trail in his wake. Unhinged, fearful and clutching the carving knife he’d taken from the king’s own table as if it was a lifeline, with nowhere to run, he hid; skulking in the meanest, darkest alleys of the city he took shelter in ruined buildings as the manhunt intensified and a new king was crowned; vicious as his predecessor and twice as mad. And the regicide, desperate, starved and wakeful and fighting night terrors that kept sleep at bay, at last made a bid for freedom in the back of a farmer’s cart. Except. Except the city gates were guarded and vehicles searched.

  
Approaching the east gate at dusk, the cart ground to a halt only for the scrap of fabric covering the cart to be pushed back. And as he cowered behind crates, his heart in his mouth, the light caught on a dull crescent of metal barely hidden in the hay. Before the guard could register the crouching fool, Sarmenti leapt up with a jingle of bells and ripped open the man’s throat with the rusty sickle. Spinning on his heel, he slashed the man’s companion through the cheek and dived forwards, laughing hysterically as he thrust his knife into the chest of the shocked farmer. Then he vanished through the half open gates into the twilit countryside beyond.

  
So on foot, the blood-soaked fool journeyed on. He had grown up in a town only a few miles outside the city, but he couldn’t go home. Besides, he didn’t feel any connection to the place he was born. He was one of a large and moderately well off family, but there was nothing in the way of inheritance for a youngest son and no job prospects for a careless, fanciful boy in a farming community. His father apprenticed him to the guild of fools when he was barely ten and he hadn’t been home since. Not that he resented it. He _liked_ being a fool. He liked to make people laugh, to caper and make mock of the serious, the sacred and the profane at will and he loved the trickery and the sleight of hand and after all, _what an honour_ it was to be court jester. Well that had worked out well, hadn’t it? His ready wit, his cruel barbs, all tossed into the mix to strike home and land precisely where they hurt most. But the king was cruel, too, without the wit, and it was no laughing matter to be a court jester. Especially with a powerful, violent king who liked to have the last laugh and for whom a fool made a perfect punching bag. Although, the jester admitted that right now he was the one laughing and he had every intention of making sure that was the way it stayed. He passed by his old hometown without a second glance.

  
Sarmenti travelled the country in the guise of a wandering minstrel, a part he played well enough to feed himself and find a welcome in many a small village where people were keen to see a performance, listen to a few tunes or hear stories from afar. He performed one night in a run-down coaching inn near the border. _“The prickle-holly bush, it pricks, it pricks…”_ As he sang he surveyed the room. It was almost empty: a wealthy looking family to one side of the room, shooting uneasy glances at the other occupants huddled in the far corner. They were a tough-looking group, less than reputable; so close to the border, they were probably smugglers or similar – maybe highwaymen. None of them were paying Sarmenti much attention.

  
_“…it pricks my heart full sore…”_ He considered his options. He’d been travelling without any goal other than 'get away’ all this time, but he felt it was time for a more solid plan. _“…For to save my body from the cold clay ground, and my neck from the high gallows tree…”_ The new ruler was loath to let a king-killer escape, that was obvious from the hue and cry that had been raised in the city, and he suspected he hadn’t been forgotten. What a blot on the royal escutcheon it would be to let a regicide escape. No. The king was probably busy thinking up exquisite torments for him right now. What, miss an opportunity for a brutal execution? Unthinkable! The jester quaked at thoughts of burning sulphur, flayed skin and shattered limbs. No, he decided. He wasn’t going to suffer for anybody’s amusement.

  
_“...if ever I get out of the prickle-holly bush I’ll never get in there anymore.”_ The smugglers would know a route over the border, but they were unlikely to tell it to any passing stranger who happened to ask. _“…for I have come to see you hanging, hanging on the high gallows tree…”_ Besides, would crossing into the next country be enough? How far would he have to run?

  
With a sigh he finished his final song and gave a deep bow to the empty room: “Ladies and gentlemen of the audience. I thank you for your wonderful patience on this fine evening and hope you enjoyed the show.” He slumped down at an empty table with a snort of disgust. One of the smugglers turned and gave him a withering glare, which he returned. “I’d pass a cap ‘round if I thought I’d get it back, mate,” he sneered. The man looked as if he was wondering whether to stand and hit him, before deciding it probably wasn’t worth the effort. So he spat sullenly, and turning his back went on with his conversation. The jester flinched, but no one noticed.

  
The pay for his performance was food and lodging for the night, and he stared disconsolately at the ale the innkeeper served. “Rat piss and water, eh? A most potent brew!” He announced at full volume, to the world in general.

  
He thoughtfully strummed the melody to his last song on his lute, noticing that it had fallen out of tune over the course of the evening. He picked a new song and started to retune the instrument.

  
“You remember old Lord Dark, aye?” There was an audible intake of breath from around the smugglers’ table, one of the men crossed himself and another rapped on the table three times then spat over his shoulder.

  
“What the bloody hell are you talking about him for?” One of them hissed furiously.

  
_“As I was a-walking all alone…”_ Sarmenti was lost in his own world, but the sudden intensity of the smugglers’ conversation caught his ear. _“…I heard twa corbies making a moan…”_

“Calm down a second, mates. I heard an heir’s turned up t’ claim his estate.”

“Huh. That old place ‘as been abandoned for donkey’s, wouldn’t like t’ see the state of it myself.”

“Aye, after what that old bastard had been doin’ there I wouldn’t set foot there for love or money! And I bet this heir’s just as rotten as the old demon!” The man was still furiously crossing himself.

_“…I wot there lies a new slain knight…”_

“That’s just the thing! They’ve opened the whole estate up to all and sundry, ‘long as they’ve got a taste for adventure. They say they’re gonna clean up all o’ grandad’s evils, and there’s mountains of gold in it for anyone brave enough to join up.”

“Oh, aye. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

_“…Ye’ll sit on his white breast bone, and I’ll pick out his bonny blue eyes …”_

The man telling the story shrugged, “They’re takin’ in anyone they can get, they’re sayin’ they’ll offer total protection from the law, so long as you work for them.”

“See, that’s far too good to be true!”

“Where did you ‘ear all this from anyway?”

“Old Dismas heard it from somewhere, set off with that weird religious mate of his to go check it out.” The others murmured some kind of assent, this seemed to count as a reliable source. Sarmenti gave the lute strings one last experimental flick. It was back in tune.

_“Many a one for him makes moan,_  
_But none shall know where he is gone,_  
_O’er his white bones, when they are bare,_  
_The wind shall blow for evermore”_

“My God, would you shut it!” The smuggler snarled, turning in his chair to glare at the minstrel. “How can one man be so damn noisy?!”

Sarmenti was staring at him.

“How far is it?”

“What?”

“That estate. How far is it from here?”

“Hah, eavesdropping, were you?” The man stood up. He really was going to thrash the jester this time.  
“No, you see, it’s just that you were talking so loudly I thought it was addressed to everyone.” He leapfrogged backwards over the table, trying to put a barrier between them. The two men circled the table until they’d pretty much reversed positions, putting Sarmenti directly between his aggressor and the other men. He glanced over his shoulder, they had risen to their feet and were watching intently, but otherwise hadn’t moved. His eyes flicked back to the first man who pushed the table out of the way and swung his fist at head height. Sarmenti ducked the blow easily and fell into a crouch. “I don’t much like violence, you know,” he lied, from about groin height, bringing his knee into sharp contact with the man’s balls as he rose. The man yelped and the other two smugglers started to move into the fight. The jester wasn’t sure he could take all three at once. He grasped the still-reeling man by the shoulder and span around him, putting him out of immediate harm’s way. Then he drew the sickle he still carried and pressed it firmly to the man’s neck. “Now let’s be civil, friends,” he said cheerfully, as everyone came to a dead halt. “Come now, what harm is there in telling me? This guy _is_ your friend, right?”

“…About fifty miles north-west of here, by the coast.” The first of the three, the one who seemed to know most about the estate said.

“Is it?”

“Honest as day. There’s a town a day’s walk from here that runs a coach there.”

There was a pause as he considered this. What if this guy was lying? He stared at the man, who met his gaze. He gave a growl of irritation, but loosened his grip. “Bastard!” The smuggler lashed out the moment the sickle was away from his neck. Sarmenti danced backwards out of reach, but was not quite quick enough; a glancing blow caught him across the nose and he staggered. Righting himself, he felt a slow trickle of blood creep from his nose. He expected to be thrown straight back into the fight, but the three men just watched him warily.

“…I think it’s about time I bid you all adieu.” He managed to maintain the disconcertingly genial voice despite the bloody nose and with about as much dignity as a man in jester’s motley could muster he walked out into the night.

  
He’d much rather die in some godforsaken ditch than on a scaffold.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the darkest dungeon discord server writing contest. This was originally the introduction to a longer piece, but it ended up way too long for the max word count and it works fine as a stand alone thing anyway. I might finish the longer version someday.


End file.
